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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24281026">Piece of Cake</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celia_and/pseuds/Celia_and'>Celia_and</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Cake, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, One Shot, Public Display of Affection, Strangers pretending to be engaged for a wedding cake tasting, This is pure sugary fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:29:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,014</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24281026</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celia_and/pseuds/Celia_and</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>She’s like Breakfast at Tiffany’s, except instead of jewelry she’s admiring a window display of cake, and instead of a croissant she’s eating Fritos.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And instead of a heart-stoppingly gorgeous brunette... oh wait, that part is the same. </em>
</p><p>----------</p><p>Ben agrees to pretend to be engaged to a stranger, and gets slightly more than he bargained for.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>508</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Galactic Idiots Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Piece of Cake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">

        <li>
          Translation into Русский available: 
            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27895108">Кусочек торта</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elafira/pseuds/Elafira">Elafira</a>
        </li>


    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote this fluffy little story on <a href="https://twitter.com/CeliaAnd2/status/1259571929104748545">Twitter</a> in response to two delectable prompts:</p><p>1) From <a href="https://twitter.com/galacticidiots/status/1252419902830346244">@galacticidiots</a>: Can’t believe I have yet to find an AU where Rey asks Ben, a total stranger, to be her fake fiancée for a couple of hours so they can get a free wedding cake tasting</p><p>2) From <a href="https://twitter.com/reylomicrofics/status/1258397880718487553">@reylomicrofics</a>: Two characters, who are romantically involved, are having an argument somewhere public. Character 1 hates PDA and is trying to be quiet. Character 2 doesn’t care at all what the other patrons think.</p><p>Enjoy! 🍰</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>She’s like Breakfast at Tiffany’s, except instead of jewelry she’s admiring a window display of cake, and instead of a croissant she’s eating Fritos.</p><p>And instead of a heart-stoppingly gorgeous brunette... oh wait, that part is the same.</p><p>Ben pauses needlessly at the corner and decides to wait until the next light cycle to cross. He craves just a scrap of good, and she’s that and then some. She’s ratty jeans and a graphic tee and old sandals, and hair tied up in three quirky buns. She’s summer.</p><p>She nears the bottom of the bag of Fritos and tilts her head back to tip the crumbs onto her tongue. He’s never wanted so badly to be a crumb before. She looks around for a trash can and sees him instead. He forgets to pretend like he wasn’t staring. She eyes him unabashedly, taking in his five thousand dollar suit and what fills it out. It’s probably eighty degrees out, but suddenly it feels like a hundred.</p><p>She approaches and drops the empty bag in the trash. “So, what’s your favorite kind?”</p><p>He swallows. “Kind of what?”</p><p>She tosses her head over her shoulder toward the shop window. “Cake.”</p><p>“What’s <em>your</em> favorite?”</p><p>“You know, I can never decide. I think I need to eat some more to help me figure it out.” Her words are perfectly innocent. Nothing that she wouldn’t say to her grandmother. So why do they drip with sex?</p><p>“I’d buy you some,” Ben says, “but that doesn’t look like the kind of place that sells it by the slice.”</p><p>“Oh, they’re not,” she agrees matter-of-factly. “Pre-order only, for weddings and things. But that won’t stop us.”</p><p>Us? Since when is there an us? And why is he so unbearably turned on?</p><p>“Where were you going?” she demands, taking for granted that his plans will change to suit her whim. She’s not wrong.</p><p>“To get coffee.”</p><p>“Sugar is a stimulant too, you can have cake instead.” Her eyes shine with a concocted plot. “Here’s the deal. We’re engaged and decided to do a spur-of-the-moment cake tasting. We’ve been together for two years. You proposed in Tuscany. Your name is...” she hums, considering. “Kylo Ren.”</p><p>“Kylo Ren? What kind of a name is that?”</p><p>She scoffs indignantly. “It’s a fantastic name, such as any fake fiancé should be grateful to have.” He’s not sold. She can tell. “Okay, mister name creation wizard, what’s my fake name, then?” Every female name temporarily leaves his head under her stare.</p><p>One flits past and he grabs at it. “Rachel.”</p><p>She arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. “What’s my last name?”</p><p>“Jones.”</p><p>
  <em>“Jones?”</em>
</p><p>“One of us has to have a normal name, it’ll be too suspicious otherwise.” How does she already have him thinking like a conman?</p><p>She looks moderately impressed in spite of herself. “Okay, Kylo. You’ll do. Ready?”</p><p>He doesn’t actually remember agreeing, he just remembers holding open the door for her and following her into the aggressively air conditioned bakery. An unoccupied saleswoman approaches them.</p><p>“Can I help you?” she asks frigidly in a tone that means the opposite as she takes in fake Rachel’s college student-esque attire.</p><p>“Oh yes, <em>thank</em> you,” she gushes, looping her arm through his, “We’re getting married in September and we need a cake!”</p><p>The saleswoman examines them slightly bemusedly but apparently decides that Ben’s four-figure outfit makes up for fake Rachel’s two-figure ensemble. “Well we usually require appointments, but I suppose we could fit you in, given the urgency. Please come this way.”</p><p>Fake Rachel lets go of Ben’s arm as they follow the woman to the tasting area, and he mourns the loss. They’re installed at an obnoxiously small standing table, amidst other couples at their own dinner plate-sized tables. Ben doesn’t give any input on their tasting selections, just leaves it up to fake Rachel. He hopes his expression could be mistaken for one of fond indulgence, not awestruck arousal. He glances out the window at where he stood alone ten minutes ago and thinks that the path of his life might have just taken an important fork.</p><p>As they wait for the samples to come, fake Rachel props her elbows on the table and fondly runs a hand down his bicep. He tenses immediately.</p><p>“You’re not selling this very well,” she whines through gritted teeth.</p><p>“I’ve never faked a relationship to defraud a bakery before,” he retorts.</p><p>She brushes some imaginary lint from his lapel. He could grab her wrist and press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside, right where the skin is the softest. It would be so easy. She would probably let him.</p><p>He doesn’t do it.</p><p>“You seem like a law-abiding kind of person,” she complains. “I bet you haven’t gotten so much as a parking ticket.”</p><p>“First of all,” he hastens to correct, “we’re not breaking any laws here.”</p><p>She tips her head in a noncommittal <em>That’s open to interpretation</em>.</p><p>“We’re not,” he insists, trying to ignore the fact that she’s currently stroking his knuckles.</p><p>“Well you seem like a rule-follower, anyway. You’re breaking the rules, Kylo.”</p><p>“Maybe you bring out the worst in me.”</p><p>She smirks. “Or the best.”</p><p>He holds her scorching stare for longer than he should, really, if he doesn’t want to get burned, and fortunately the tension diffuses with the arrival of the cake. The saleswoman describes each variety in a level of detail that appears to be entirely lost on fake Rachel. While the woman is expounding on the purity of the vanilla beans organically sourced for the buttercream, fake Rachel is exclusively focused on getting it into her mouth.</p><p>The first moan, when it comes, is somewhat inconvenient. The second goes straight to his cock. He’s so tightly wound he might snap. The saleswoman is watching him suspiciously, which is entirely justified, because he’s not watching fake Rachel like a fiancé would. He’s not looking at her like someone who gets to have sex with her on a regular basis. He’s looking at her like someone who would part with half of his worldly possessions to be allowed to touch her ankle.</p><p>Which, to be fair, isn’t inaccurate.</p><p>Her enjoyment is the purest thing he’s ever witnessed. Her moans aren’t for the his benefit, or the saleswoman’s, or anyone else’s. He’s pretty sure that if she were airlifted alone to the middle of a remote field with cake samples, she would be making these same exact noises. It’s oddly endearing. And as soon as that thought crosses Ben’s mind, he realizes that this charade might have been a bad idea after all.</p><p>Fake Rachel looks up at him and gestures to the half-devoured slice of chocolate. “What do you think, Ky?”</p><p>Jesus. A fake nickname now. Well, two can play at that game. “Whatever you like is fine with me, Ray.”</p><p>She startles and looks at him with an inscrutable stare that seems to reach his bones. He shifts uncomfortably, wondering what he did wrong. The saleswoman waits.</p><p>Fake Rachel recovers. “Isn’t he just too good to me?” she simpers to the saleswoman, who nods sympathetically. She takes another bite of cake, swallows it, and leans over to kiss him. He visibly shies away.</p><p>He messed up. The saleswoman’s eyes narrow. So do fake Rachel’s.</p><p>She arches a single eyebrow. <em>Play along,</em> it says. She musters an impressively dramatic sob. “Kylo, I can’t live like this anymore!” Heads are turning at neighboring tasting tables. Ben freezes, unsure what to do. “We’ve been together for two years, and you still won’t kiss me in public! We’re all adults here!” she gestures widely at the room in general. “No one is going to be shocked if, God forbid, my <em>fiancé</em> were to show the slightest sign of physical affection! For once in my life!”</p><p>She’s worked herself up to an impressive lather. Ben wonders if she’s an actress. He also wonders how the hell he’s supposed to respond. He tries, “I’m sorry, dear,” but she cuts him off.</p><p>“Oh you’re <em>sorry, dear?</em> Well that makes it all fine, doesn’t it!?”</p><p>“Rachel,” he grits, glancing around, “people are watching.”</p><p>She’s near hysterical. “I know you walked in on your parents having sex when you were six, Kylo, but you need to get over it! I can’t marry you if you won’t even—”</p><p>He cuts her off. With his mouth.</p><p>His arms press her firmly against the length of him and his mouth attacks hers, hard and demanding. She responds immediately with an unquestioning fervor that makes him wonder just how long she’s been planning this. The thought riles him, and he bites her lip in retaliation. She moans—that moan of cake and pleasure, in <em>his</em> mouth. His tongue against hers punishes her for the frustration of her lips and the inside of her wrist and a dozen other things besides, that have nothing to do with her. He snakes a hand to the swell of her ass and grinds her against him and locks his other arm around her back. He kisses her with his anger at his boss and his resentment at his mother and the burning shame of the lonely that he can never shake.</p><p>It’s not until her hands gently cup his cheeks and her lips turn tender against his that he can breathe again. His arms gradually relax their death grip on her. She leaves one last slow, lingering kiss on the corner of his mouth and pulls back. She smiles hesitantly. He doesn’t know how to smile; the only thing in the world he knows how to do is look at her. At her lips, wet with his. And the sprinkle of freckles on her nose that he didn’t see until just now. And the hazel of her eyes. He could dive in and live in her eyes.</p><p>She’s the first one to glance around at the silent audience to their wildly inappropriate, bordering-on-dry-humping kiss. When he gathers his wits enough to follow suit, the other patrons have already averted their eyes. It takes another minute for their own saleswoman to recover. She’s pale with offended dignity. Before she can demand that they leave, fake Rachel (and how is it possible that he still doesn’t know her name!?) meekly asks, “May I use your restroom?”</p><p>The saleswoman grudgingly points her to it, then retreats and watches Ben like a hawk, as if he’ll lunge at another unsuspecting client and start making out with her too. He waits docilely until his companion emerges, and they’re ushered unceremoniously from the shop. Ben holds the door open for her, and she brushes against him in her haste to leave. Out on the pavement, they walk far enough that they can’t be seen from the bakery.</p><p>As soon as they’re a sufficient distance away, Ben erupts in irrepressible laughter, and fake Rachel does too. He laughs until his sides hurt and tears fill his eyes. He can’t remember the last time he laughed. Not the last time he laughed this hard—he can’t remember the last time he laughed <em>at all</em>.</p><p>When he turns to her, she’s already recovered. “Anyway,” she says casually, “thanks for the cake. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”</p><p>Her words are a bucket of ice water. “What? That’s it?”</p><p>“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” she walks backward a few steps, tossing him one more grin before she darts around the corner and is lost from view. He reels.</p><p>The rest of the afternoon is a blur. What’s he supposed to do? The memory of <em>her</em> rattles around in his brain and there’s nowhere to store it. There’s no existing mental category for life-changing kisses with the woman of his dreams who immediately flees without a trace.</p><p>Back at home that night, he undresses, still in a daze. As he takes his suit jacket off and puts it in the dry cleaning bag, he happens to notice a torn scrap of paper flutter from the pocket to the floor. He bends down to pick it up.</p><p>It reads, in a hurried scrawl:</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Feel free to come visit me on <a href="https://twitter.com/CeliaAnd2">Twitter</a>! 🤗💛</p></blockquote></div></div>
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